


Faded Young Hearts.

by Miss_Missing_You



Series: In Any Universe [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Blight, Angst, F/M, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, Prince Alistair - Freeform, Sort of a royalty AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 01:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18681730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Missing_You/pseuds/Miss_Missing_You
Summary: Kalihira Tabris begins working in the Denerim Palace Kitchen at 16.  She needs the money and it's one of the few honestly jobs available to elves.  Of the people she thought she'd meet at midnight in the palace basement Alistair - the king's second son - was not one of them.  More importantly, she would've never believed he could be anything other than a stuck up bastard.or the one in which Alistair's a prince, Kalihira's a kitchen maid and they really shouldn't be hanging out but they're going to fall in love anyway





	Faded Young Hearts.

It’s midnight and Kalihira Tabris is sitting in the kitchen of the Denerim Royal Palace watching the ovens cool.  The other elves – because they’re the only people willing to work overnight for minimal pay – are sitting around her.  The only reason they’re there is just in case some random noble decides they want a late night snack.  But it pays and her work with the Jennies wasn’t worth the worry it caused her father.  Kalihira catches one of the girls looking at her.  Lane, she thinks her name is, she vaguely remembers a childish romance brewing between her and Soris last year or the year before.  She opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by a loud clattering in the hallway.  Her hackles raise as a string of curse words follow the sound.  None of the others seems to care about the noise, apart from Pavera who begins to pull together a plate of leftovers.  A young man appears on the doorway.  An apologetic smile is plastered on his face.  Kalihira examines him as he steps into the dim light.  Blonde, broad and muscular, looks a year or two older than herself.  He has the Theirin look about him, with darker skin than the King and heir.  Grimacing slightly he holds up a shard of pottery.

“I’ll clean it up I swear.” He says, the shade of an apologetic smile flits across his face.

“Have your food first, Alistair.” Pavera turns to Kalihira, the motherly smile fading slightly from her face. “Kalihira, get the pan and brush and begin to clear up.”

Kalihira nods.  She keeps her head down whilst walking past the prince, his head follows her before Pavera ushers him into the seat that just became free.  The hallway floor is covered in rice.  There’s broken pottery scattered into the mix as well.  Sighing she sets to work clearing up the Shem princeling’s mess.   A small part of her rebels against cleaning up his mess.  A bigger part reminds her that it’s her job.  She’s on her knees, the rice pushed into a pile, picking up the pieces of pot when the princeling returns.  He’s got an embarrassed smile on his face as he kneels down next to her to help.  Sparing him a glance Kalihira points to the napkin she’s been placing the shards on. 

“I’m sorry about this,” He says as they work.  Kalihira doesn’t look up from her work she lets the silence grow for a moment before speaking,

“S’fine,” she grits out.  There’s stab of pain in her hand, grimacing she looks at the cut she just sustained from a piece of pottery.

“Are you okay?” The princeling reaches for her hand.  Instinctively she wrenches it out of his reach.  His face falls and he retreats back into his own space, his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, but I can help.”  He holds his hand out, palm flat asking for hers.

“I can patch up myself, m’lord.”  The title is an afterthought.  If she’s going to be standoffish and rude she’s going to it with some semblance of manners.  She’s an elf, not a savage.  He cringes at the formality

“Just let me help, it’s the least I can do.”  The princeling is exasperated now.  Reluctantly Kalihira places her cut hand on his.  Really the cut isn’t too bad, a line of red across her palm.  The blood coming out of it just makes it look worse than it is.  Kalihira watches as he goes to rip a strip of fabric from the bottom of his shirt.

“What are you doing, m’lord?” She says, stopping him from ripping his shirt.

“Please stop calling me that, I’m Alistair.”  The exasperation on his face is clear, but so is something close to a smile.  He then goes back to the hem of shirt.

“Don’t rip your shirt, M’lord.” Kalihira quirks an eyebrow at him when he looks at her.  It’s a small act of rebellion but one she is going to savour.  He sighs.

“Well, what else am I to use as a bandage?”  Smiling a little Kalihira produces a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron, she hands it to him with a sarcastic flourish.  Begrudgingly he takes it. 

It feels to Kalihira like he takes hours to bandage the cut.  To say it is weird to have a prince holding her hand, wrapping her old hankie around her palm, is an understatement.  But eventually he moves away.  However he doesn’t let go of her hand.  Instead he lifts it up, surveying his handiwork.  Then he adjusts his grip so it sits like a handshake.

“I’m going to try again.  Hello, my name is Alistair Theirin.”  There’s a wicked, self-satisfied, smile on his face.  Kalihira thinks she preferred it when he was embarrassed.  For a second she glares at him.

“Kalihira Tabris,” she says. 

“I’d say lovely to meet you Miss Tabris –” Kalihira snorts at the moniker – “but I’m afraid that would be a lie.  And I think the Maker says that’s bad.”

Kalihira sleeps through the days, rising at about 6 o’clock, based on the chimes of the chantry, to ready herself for work.  Sometimes Soris or Shianni sit with her while she plaits her hair or looks for her shoes.  They tell her about events during the day.  Once or twice Deylaros, one of the Denerim Jennies, comes in to try and convince her to take a job.  It’s always when Soris, who remembers their last job far too vividly, is with her.  He always makes sure Deylaros leaves swiftly.  Today is one of the Deylaros days.  Except situations have changed.  While Soris and Kalihira stand there with their stomachs growling and Deylaros smiling, looking increasingly well fed.  As she walks to the Palace Kalihira starts to contemplate taking up with the Jennies again.  Are more lines on her father’s face worth slightly fuller bellies?  Worth a few more gold pieces?  She’s not sure.  Lane catches up with her at the Kitchen door.  She smiles warmly and links arms with her while the human guards leer.

Pavera looks at Kalihira like she knows what’s going through her mind.  While they sit there Kalihira listens to the prattle of the other servants.  They are all in the same boat as her; missing days.  So now is the only time they are truly able to discuss things.  Once or twice Pavera tries to shut them up, especially when topics veer too close to someone’s family, but it doesn’t work.  The only time the discussion stops is when a noble calls for food or someone walks in.  Someone other than Prince Alistair.  Kalihira doesn’t quite understand what makes him different to other Shems.  Other than the fact he takes an interest in events in the Alienage.  Valyna leans low towards him, her elbows pushing her chest together, as she answers his questions.  Kalihira doesn’t know or care why the princeling wants to know about the fact that when the rain is bad the streets flood with waste, or that some homes are shared between three families, or the way that some people don’t even have a window.  What she does know is the way Valyna smiles and her voice becomes breathier.  She spent an autumn using those skills on Soris.  They didn’t work on him but Kalihira remembers nights wasted listening to Shianni sing her praises.  If anyone can make the Alienage attractive it’s Valyna.  But the princeling doesn’t seem to notice.  Either he’s thick or just disinterested.  Kalihira just smirks at the situation and looks down at her hand.  She was never that good at wicked grace.  It’s not that she can’t bluff – she can definitely bluff – it’s that she’s unlucky.  That or Lane is dodgy dealing.  For her pride’s sake when she loses Kalihira is going to say Lane was cheating. 

Three nights pass of playing spit and various other card games with Lane, acknowledging Alistair briefly when he appears and suppressing a snort at Valyna’s antics before Lane’s kind streak gets the better of her.

“Alistair, milord –” Kalihira has to suppress her smile at the princeling’s exasperated look – “would you like to join our game?”  It takes a second for Lane’s offer to sink in.  A relief darts over Alistair’s face.  He smiles his apology at Valyna before walking over to the central table that Kalihira and Lane have claimed.  Lane scoots left, allowing the princeling to sit between them.  Some of the others join them, creating a group big enough to play wicked grace.

“You know how to play?” Lane checks before dealing.  Alistair nods, adjusting his arm so he and Kalihira aren’t pressed together.  Once the cards are dealt, once Kalihira has accused Lane of dodgy dealing, it slowly becomes less awkward.  When you’re slaughtering someone at cards it’s easy enough to forget they are exactly the type of person you’ve spent your life learning to avoid.  It scares Kalihira how easily she falls into comfortable banter with the princeling. 

It becomes habit.  Every night Alistair comes down to the kitchens he takes his food from Pavera and, instead of sitting down across from Valyna, he places himself next to Kalihira.  He shoots her a shy smile every time he does it, like he half expects each night to be the one where she rejects him.  She has yet to do so.  Kalihira pushes the worries about her blossoming friendship with the prince to the side.  Lane begins smiling knowingly at her.  Valyna stops trying to capture Alistair’s attention.  Now she sits on the stool across from Kalihira, watching her with more interest than she ever showed towards the princeling.  Pavera just shakes her head.  There’s a sad smile sitting on her face.

One night Lane is sick and so it is just Kalihira and Alistair sitting at their table in the kitchen.  According to the clock on the wall it is nearly three in the morning.  Alistair is in the middle of recounting to Kalihira his venture into the council chamber the previous morning.  She leans forward, listening attentively.  There’s lightness in sitting her chest.  In her mind she knows it’s because Alistair is smiling at her, looking at her.  Halfway through the story Pavera comes over.  That same sad smile is on her face – one that Kalihira is sure Alistair has not noticed.   She lays a hand on the princeling’s shoulder.  The sad smile is replaced by a motherly one as she looks at Alistair and tells him it’s time to go.  Once he is gone Pavera indicates for Kalihira to follow her into the store cupboard.  The door has swung shut behind them when Pavera turns to her.

"Careful, little Tabris," She says, her voice softer than Kalihira's ever heard it, "elves are to princelings as water is to oil."

Kalihira knows what Pavera means, and the words bounce through her brain the rest of the night. 

She avoids Alistair.  It’s the only way to fix the problem of the fluttering in her chest that she can think of.  When he comes down to the kitchens she finds excuses to go into the store cupboard or not talk to him.  There’s something akin to hurt in his puppy dog eyes when she snaps at him for distracting her.  It hurts her too.  She feels herself losing a friend.  Or a _something_.  Because shem princelings and elf kitchen girls can’t be friends.  At least that’s what she tells herself when guilt makes its home in the pit of her stomach.

There’s a grain shortage, when this happens the Alienage is always hit the worst.  The people there can’t afford the rise in price.  They starve.  Kalihira hasn’t eaten more than once every couple of days for two weeks.  Neither has her father.  He’s taking it harder than her.  Every time she wakes he looks closer to death.  She knows he’s been sacrificing his portions for her.  Alistair stops coming down every night.  He knows what they’re going through in the Alienage and can’t do anything about it.  One day Deylaros comes to her.  He promises her food and the money to buy more for one job.  It’s a simple job.  One night, a raid on some Arl’s grain store.  The Arl himself isn’t even in Denerim the night.  Soris and Shianni aren’t there to stop her.

Her skin feels clammy and Kalihira knows that she must look a state.  Pavera has sent her into one of the storerooms to take a break.  Part of it, she knows, is too keep her away while Alistair is in the kitchen.  There's this voice in the back of her mind that is unsure whether Pavera is protecting her or Alistair.  It worries her.  But in that moment Kalihira is thankful for the cool air and the quiet of the storeroom.  She collapses against the wall as the door shuts behind her.  Slowly she undoes her bodice, lifting the shirt she is wearing as she does so.  Tentatively she feels the bandages covering her side.  They're wet to the touch, she knows that if she had not been wearing a black shirt the whole kitchen would know. It's what she deserves for working with the Jennies again.  As she prods the gash in her side, relieved that she can feel the motions, she knows she should have expected this when she let Deylaros talk her into working with them again.  The things she did for coin. Things like working in the Palace kitchens the night after breaking into the Arl of Amaranthine's Denerim estate. She hears the door creaking and winces as she tries to push her shirt down before the person can see.

"Maker Kali." It's Alistair, embarrassment threatens to envelop her at the clarity in his voice that he's seen her side.

"I'm fine." Her voice is weak, as is the front she's trying to put up.  He just looks at her sceptically.  Shaking his head he moves towards her.  There's a moment where she has to catch her breath, realising that she is not instinctively moving away from him like she does every other shem. 

Slowly Alistair lifts her shirt again to look at the wound.  Silently she dares him to ask of its origin.  But he doesn't.  Instead he retreats back to the kitchen after a moment of examination.  When he returns he holds a basin of water, cloth and clean linen.  Once making sure the door is closed behind him he tentatively asks her to take off her shirt.  Kalihira does, ignoring the slight flutter she feels at the concern in his tone. She doesn't know when she started to trust Alistair implicitly.  But that doesn't matter as she lifts off her tunic.  Alistair takes over when she winces as soon as her arm is above her shoulder.  Like the gentleman he is, he ignores the fact that she is just in her breast bindings and leggings in front of him.  Instead he focuses his eyes on her side.  Carefully he undoes the bandages Soris helped her clumsily put on last night when she crawled through his window instead of her own.  The smell of the wound is taut in the air, sharp and metallic.  All that gives Alistair's reaction away is his quick intake of breath.  When the water touches the gash it stings, but he takes no care for the way it affects her.  Diligently he cleans the wound, eventually wrapping the new bandages around her torso.

"You didn't have to," Kalihira breathes when he is finished, sitting back in his haunches to examine his handiwork.

"Yes. I did."  The solid finality in his voice almost makes her shiver.  His warm, dry, hand comes up to her forehead, quickly checking her temperature, before it brushes her hair out the way and moves down to cup her cheek.  Without thinking, Kalihira leans into his touch.

"Thank you," she whispers, her lips almost touching his wrist.

Alistair must tell Pavera about Kalihira’s _situation_ because she bans her from coming to the kitchens for two weeks.  The injury heals slowly and Kalihira becomes restless.  Lane comes by occasionally, she brings updates on what’s happening.  She doesn’t have any other source since Soris is pissed at her for both working with the Jennies again and not bringing him with her on the job.  Apparently Maric is holding some sort of festival for some reason.  Lane said that, according to Alistair, it was to celebrate the end of shortages.  Kalihira knows she’ll be back in the kitchen for that.  When she asks about Alistair.  Lane smiles knowingly.  It’s starting to annoy her how people keep doing that. 

As suspected Kalihira is back in the kitchen just in time for the festival.  Visiting nobles come from across the country to attend.  Most of the nobles take advantage of the bells in their rooms, ringing down to the kitchens to midnight snacks.  Kalihira’s never known nights in the kitchens as busy as these.  On her second night back she is returning through one of the secret passages from delivering food when she almost crashes into Alistair.  He comes from a hidden entrance and stops just short of hitting her with the candle he’s holding in front of him.  Slowly he looks her up and down.  Under his gaze Kalihira feels naked.  It doesn’t make sense, the way he looks at her is completely innocent but still she feels so vulnerable.

“You’re alive then?” He whispers.  Kalihira shrugs in reply, how do you answer that?  Without thinking she steps towards him.  He doesn’t move back.  His eyes flicker across her face.  Eyes, lips and back.  She takes his free hand.

“Thank you,” the words have always sat funny on her tongue, and she doesn’t think she’s ever said them to a human.  But this is Alistair.  Somehow he’s different. “For tending my wound.”

Alistair shrugs, a half smile flickering in the candlelight.  Wordlessly he takes her arm, the contact sending a buzz through her, and walks in step with her to the kitchen.

She kisses him on Satinalia.  He comes down just as the Chantry Bell tolls the beginning of the new day.  They sit together as he eats, their arms pressed together.  He asks Kalihira to follow him as he goes to leave.  In the corridor he reaches behind a jar and brings out a clumsily wrapped box. It’s small, the thick brown parchment it’s wrapped in makes it look bigger. Kalihira stares at it, unsure.

“I don’t need anything.” She says without thinking.  An exasperated smile crosses Alistair’s face.

“I know.”

Scrunching her eyebrows at him Kalihira takes the package.  Unwrapping it reveals a small box and now her heart is beating fast because all her mind can see in that box are things that she’d never in a million years be able to afford.  If that’s the case then she’d have to accept that the man in front of her, a man who makes her a heart flutter and her skin buzz, sees her as a charity case.  Tentatively she opens the box.  It takes a second, the box fits so tightly together, and when she opens her breath catches.  Inside is the flower of a rose.  She stares at it.  It looks fresh, not wilting at all.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, “how?”

“Best not to ask.”  She can feel relief pouring off Alistair.  Her heart stutters at the idea that he was worried about whether she’d like it.  When she lifts her eyes from the rose to his face he’s just looking at her.  There’s a shy blush across his cheeks.  Something in her spurs her forward, the blush creeps higher up Alistair’s cheek at their new proximity – something about it is different from how they press they bodies together in the Kitchen.

“Thank you,” she says.  In slow motion she rolls up on her toes, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.  His skin is hot under her lips.  Shyly she steps away.

“Kalihira… I…” The nerves are clear in his strangled voice.  Alistair shakes his head and gently grasps her arm, tugging her back towards him.

Then he’s kissing her and it is slow and tender and everything she knows she should have expected from him.  Reflexively her arms go up to cup his face while his wind around her waist.  When he pulls back Kalihira can’t catch her breath.  Her hands drop from his face to his chest, then after a moment to her sides.  He’s searching her face, doubt and worry laced in his features.  So she reaches out and squeezes his hand, places a soft kiss on his lips.  The smile that breaks across his face is brighter than the Bloomingtide sun.

They know they shouldn’t.  There’s so much that says this is wrong.  But Kalihira’s soul calls out for him.  It doesn’t even have to be romantic, she tells herself, she just needs him around.  Yet as soon as his arm brushes hers when he enters the kitchen Kalihira knows she’s lying to herself.  There are people waiting for both of them.  One day, likely after her eighteenth name day, she will marry some elf from another Alienage and move there.  Alistair has been betrothed to another noble almost since the day Maric acknowledged him.  But when they sneak into the storeroom and his hands wind around her waist those people don’t matter.  Everyone knows, it’s not like they’re being particularly subtle about it.  Lane begs her for any scraps of details on their walks to and from the kitchens.  Kalihira doesn’t give her anything.  Telling Lane would lead to Lane letting something slip, then Soris, Shianni or – maker forbid – her father finding out.  That would not end well.   Valnya fixes her with glares.  Kalihira just knows that she’s thinking the worst.  That she’s using him for something, maybe extra gold or something.  The glares aren’t jealous out of feelings for Alistair; they’re jealous because Valnya wanted the opportunities Kalihira can’t think of taking.  Pavera’s the worst. _Elves are to princelings as oil to water_ , echoes through Kalihira’s mind every time their eyes meet.  It’s because she cares – for Alistair or Kalihira herself she doesn’t know.  But still, Kalihira can’t bring herself to end it.  Somewhere on the road between games of wicked grace and kissing him in the storeroom, Kalihira stopped hating the bastard prince.  What she feels every time his arms wrap around her and his lips find hers is something entirely different.

By her eighteenth name day she’s realised that she’s in love with him.  But she can’t say it.  One day this has to end – she can’t be happy for so long – and if she says it she doesn’t think she could get through losing him.  So instead she doesn’t say goodbye to him at midnight.  Instead, she stays with him.  Goes to his rooms and she still can’t say she loves him.  But maker-damn her he will know.

*****

She’s beautiful.  Penelope Cousland arrived in Denerim only a few days ago but Kalihira has seen enough of her to know that Alistair’s betrothed is beautiful in a way that very few people could be.    Her smile is infectious, her hair is glossy and her figure full in a way that shows the fact she has never gone hungry, her gaze was kind.  The Cousland girl is alive in every sense of the word.  But Alistair does not talk about her when he comes to the kitchen – even though that’s all the other servants want to do.  He takes her into the storeroom, where he had patched her wounds so long ago, and tells Kalihira about mundane things.  Cailan and Anora’s latest fight, Maric's antics, his own attempts to help the Alienage.  Then he pulls her onto his lap and pushes her hair out of her face, looking at her like it might be the last chance he has.  When he kisses her now it feels like every time may be the last.  It’s like he’s a drowning man and she’s his air.  Ever since the Cousland party arrived Pavera has been looking at her with an awful concoction of worry and pity.  Sometimes Kalihira thinks she sees the same look on other’s faces.  It’s jarring, uncomfortable and makes her feel sick to the stomach.

Kalihira knows it’s over when she wakes up alone after midnight in Alistair’s bed. The pillows still smell like him, it’s more comforting than the warmth of the bed and the softness of the sheets.  When she pushes off the blankets the cold clings to her body.  Slowly she dresses herself, savouring the last moments that she can pretend.  In the darkness she can barely see if the clothes she pulls on are her own.  Her hands skim across the fabric, able to tell the difference between the rough wool of her tunic and the cotton of Alistair’s. Against her better judgment, she waits in the bedchamber for Alistair – at the very least they deserve a goodbye.  It feels like she sits by the windows for what feels like hours before he slides back in. Her resolve is strengthened by the night wind beating against her face.  She refuses to speak first, watching in silence as he lights the room’s lamps.  Once the room is lit he hugs her, holding her close against his chest, and places a soft kiss on her forehead.

“I love you,” he murmurs into her hair.

“I know.” Saying it back at this point would break her heart.

“I want you to stay, I want us both to leave.  We could run away together, find a small town in the Free Marches.  Live happily ever after.  We could be together.”  There’s a note of desperation in his voice.  Once again he sounds like that young man she met when she was sixteen.  It’s like before Maric forced him to act like a prince.  For a second Kalihira allows herself to imagine it.  The small cottage, a solid roof and warm hearth.  The smile on Alistair’s face every time he would walk through the door, no longer forced to be something he’s not.  Maybe there are children, playing, laughing, being alive.  They could be happy in that life.  Everything inside her is screaming to say yes. But the warning Pavera gave two years ago rings through her mind.   _Elves to princelings as water to oil_. 

“Lady Cousland will make a beautiful wife,” is what she says instead, her voice wavering slightly as she moves to look him in the eyes. “I suspect loving her will be easy.”

“I don’t want to love her.” Alistair’s voice is breaking, his eyes shining with tears that Kalihira does not want to see shed.

“Please, try.” She cups his face, “You deserve it.”

Softly she kisses him.  The tears running down their cheeks mingle with each other.  Alistair’s hands are gripping her waist like he never wants to let her go.  But when she pulls away his hands fall.  She takes the servant passage out of his rooms and to the kitchen.  It’s barely dawn when she gets to her bed in the Alienage.

Prince Alistair Theirin and Lady Penelope Cousland are married three weeks later in the market district Chantry.  Kalihira works a full day in the Kitchens, preparing the wedding feast, so she doesn’t have to see him or the festivities.  The palace kitchens are boiling hot with all the fires burning.  On her back she can feel the eyes of the day overseer – a human woman with pinched features and a far less patient disposition than Pavera – constantly watching her and the other elven servants work.  The gaze of the guards lingers on her backside, she can feel it making her skin crawl.  In the back of her mind is a voice saying that this might just be the thing that kills her.  An uncomfortably loud one says that she would be okay with that.  But when she is tasked with taking food to the grand hall she sees him.  He is radiant in Theirin colours, dancing with his new bride at the centre of the room.  Her heart breaks all over again and for a second she wishes for him to look her way, for him to take her away from this life.  She wants that cottage with happiness and children.  When he looks at the food coming in she knows he sees her.  From across the room she feels him deflate ever so slightly.  She leaves the grand hall.  After all, servants aren’t there to watch the festivities.

Three months after the wedding it is announced that Penelope Cousland-Theirin is with child.  Kalihira feels numb. 

Three months and a day after the wedding Kalihira is supposed to get married to a man she has never met.  Shianni wakes her up on the morning of the wedding, excitement written across her face.  Her cousin helps her dress, a simple white dress with her mother’s boots.  She laces blue flowers into her hair – although Kalihira thinks that they’re unnecessary, the flowers aren’t going to make her any more attractive.  When she steps outside Soris is waiting for her.  They exchange the woven bracelets they made each other when they were kids as he asks if they can run away.  For a moment her mind flashes back to Alistair’s bedroom and hope, but she just shakes her head smiling a little at his antics.  Nelaros is handsome, in the back of her head she cannot help but compare him to the one person she should not. Maybe she could learn to love him.  The tentative way he smiles at her makes the thought take shape.  Perhaps if Highever can make people like him and Lady Cousland it wouldn’t be so bad.  But the new possibility Kalihira allows herself to be faced with is cut off by Vaughan, the Arl of Denerim’s son.

She rips the Arl of Denerim’s estate apart.  Her wedding dress is ripped at the knees, the beautiful twist Shianni created in her hair that morning is falling down – she and Soris leave a trail of blue flowers in their wake as well as dead bodies.  In the pocket of her leggings the wedding ring she found in Nelaros’ pocket burns her skin.  Kalihira tells herself that her unbridled rage, her need for blood compensation, comes from her need to save Shianni, to avenge her almost-husband, to teach the Shems a lesson.  But it isn’t and it feels like an insult to Nelaros’ memory to use him as an excuse.  In the back of her mind, the _almost rational_ voice knows that part of what she feels is to do with the child growing in a princess' womb.  A future she never got to have.  One she shouldn't even have entertained. There’s a buzzing in her bones as blood dyes her new dress red.  To her right she can sense Soris.  He is as angry as her, but she thinks he’s also afraid.  She doesn’t know of what, but the way he cringes blood spurts from the neck of guard makes her think it is her.  But it doesn’t matter, the formation they fall into is natural and not even his fear can disrupt the pattern three years with the Jennies created.  When they reach Vaughan’s rooms she isn’t thinking of consequences.  She spits in the Shem lordling's face when he tries to bribe her.  After all, it’s not like she has anything left to lose.   Vaughan’s corpse crumples.  Blood spurts from where she slit his throat, adding another layer to the already dried blood coating her.  Shianni latches 0onto her, Soris goes to find the other women.  Kalihira’s rage relights anew at the way Shianni shakes, her rumpled dress, the dark look in her eyes. 

“You killed them, didn’t you?  You killed them all?” Shianni looks at Kalihira.  She refuses to look at the ground.  She could never stomach the same things Kalihira and Soris could.  They bore it so she didn’t have to.  Until now.

“Like dogs, Shianni,” is all Kalihira says before getting Soris to support Shianni’s other side and help her to her feet.  As they leave she thinks that she lied to Shianni.  Dogs deserve so much better than people like Vaughan and his cronies.

Kalihira is still in the blood-soaked wedding clothes when the guards come.  When they ask for the culprit she steps forward without hesitation, signalling to Soris to stay out of it.  If the guards are sceptical about her capability - she is just an elf and a woman - then they choose ease over duty.  Or maybe the blood matted through her hair and saturated in her dress quelled their questions.  As they lead her away, hands bound, the only comfort she has is Shianni's safety. 

The jail cell is cold.  Sometimes it feels like the grey stone walls are closing in on her.  But maybe it’s just her eyes playing tricks on her.  Perhaps that’s what four months in a dungeon does.  The person across the way had been here longer than her.  Sometimes, in the night, Kalihira swears she can hear him talking and cackling to himself.  In the first nights she heard the man talking to himself about how he’s disappointed with her lack of fight.  She has not spoken since her wedding day.  She wants to shout back that she can’t be bothered.  That she slaughtered the estate guard out of spite and is now just tired.  But she doesn’t because she isn’t completely sure if the voice is real or not.  Once, halfway through the second month, she tries to speak – if only to remind herself that she can.  All that comes out is a hoarse almost word.  So now she just sits, listlessly, in the back corner of the cell.  The wedding dress with its dry four-month-old blood and dirt clings to her body.  There at times, normally when the walls start to close in and the man’s manic speech grows louder, that she could swear the neck starts to contract, strangling her.  The guards are wary of her, even in her weakened pitiful state – she can sense it when they push her meals through the door.  Once she swears she sees the Arl watching her through the barred window in the door.  He probably wonders how she could have posed a challenge to his guards and son. Kalihira spits at him.  Putting as much venom as she can muster in the one movement.  Perhaps it's uncalled for, she is the one who murdered his only son, but she can't bring herself to care.  She's halfway to insanity, she doesn’t care about anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Don't forget to leave kudos or a comment. You could even get in contact with me over on [_my tumblr_](https://thegingerwithcurlyfries.tumblr.com/).  
> Thank you xx


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